“Doubtful, but we should be able to pick up Ingrid’s scent and track her from there.”
Her nails unconsciously dug into his arm, her wolf eager to be on the hunt even as her heart clenched with fear. “What if she hurts Harley or the babies before we can reach them?”
“We have twenty-four hours. If we don’t pick up Ingrid’s trail, then I’ll make the call.” He cupped her cheek in his hand, brushing her lips with a soft kiss. “I promise nothing’s going to hurt your sister.”
She leaned her forehead against his, taking strength in his familiar scent.
“Let’s go,” she whispered.
Salvatore’s lair in St. Louis
Gaius was fuming as he paced from one end of the wine cellar to the other.
Who could blame him? He was standing in the lair of the King of Weres with two curs who looked like matching G.I. Joe dolls and a goth witch who was wearing a tight leather skirt and spike-heeled boots that were as impractical as they were ridiculous. He’d been forced to shape-shift to look like the Queen of Weres in an attempt to lure the prophet into his clutches. And now he was stuck waiting with his trio of idiots on the off chance the plot would work.
Plus, adding insult to injury, the entire place reeked of dogs.
Che macello.
Clearly possessing more brawn than brains, the male cur sauntered within striking distance of Gaius, seemingly indifferent to the frigid fury that prickled through the air. “It really is remarkable,” Dolf murmured, compounding his stupidity by lifting a hand toward Gaius’s long mane of blond hair.
“Touch me and your sister will be dragging you out of here as a corpse.”
The cur jerked his hand back, his face flushed at the icy warning. “No need for threats,” he protested. “We’re all on the same side here.”
Gaius curled his lips. “Do not remind me.”
The cur grimaced. “What crawled up your ass and died?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Why are you in such a pissy mood?”
Gaius narrowed his gaze. “Are you trying to be amusing?”
“No, I just—”
“Do you think I want to humiliate myself with this”—Gaius waved a hand to indicate his slender, delicately curved body—“female form?”
The flush drained from Dolf ’s face to leave him a frightened shade of gray. “Of course not.”
“Or to spend hours trespassing in the lair of the King of Weres?” Gaius continued, his voice edged with a bitterness that was capable of flaying the skin off a lesser creature. “Who, by the way, has his full powers returned and would happily kill me on sight.”
Dolf lifted his hands in a desperate attempt at damage control. “I told you, Ingrid’s source says that the king and queen are in Chicago for at least two more days.”
Gaius wasn’t any more impressed now than he’d been when he first heard the reassurance. Not that he was given any choice, he grimly reminded himself. When Ingrid had approached him with the suggestion of using his ability to alter shapes to bait a trap for the prophet, he’d emphatically refused.
He wasn’t about to make a fool of himself by prancing around looking like a damned female while lurking in the wine cellar of the King of Weres. He did have some pride left. But, of course, the witch had instantly done her wireless communication with the Dark Lord and Gaius discovered himself on his knees, agreeing to travel to St. Louis and pose as Harley.
He didn’t, however, agree to like it.
“Her mysterious source could be mistaken,” he pointed out in biting tones. “Or hoping to keep us here long enough to become lambs to the slaughter.”
“Ingrid knows what she’s doing.” Dolf sent a glance that was far too intimate toward his sister. Creepy. “She came up with the plan to trick Caine into coming to this wine cellar, didn’t she?”
“So she did.” Gaius shifted his attention toward the female cur who leaned against the shelves of wine, her muscular arms folded over her chest. “You’re certain he will come to this cellar instead of calling as you demanded?”
Ingrid shrugged. “Caine is pathologically suspicious, which makes it almost impossible to ambush him. We have to convince him that he’s actually avoiding the trap while we nudge him where we want him to go.”